Casket of Fears and Dreams
by Jantallian
Summary: The unexpected discovery of a strange treasure stirs up shadows of the past – and perhaps the future – for the Laramie family, which each one must face, but not necessarily wholly alone. (Ch 7 updated 1/11/17)
1. Chapter 1

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 **Casket of Fears and Dreams**

Jantallian

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 _To build a new life on a ruined life,_

 _to make the future fairer than the past,_

 _and make the past appear a troubled dream._

 _._

It was Mike Williams who found the box. Found it entirely by accident.

They had all been working since early that morning - Slim and Jess digging post holes, hammering uprights, stretching wire - Andy helping with the digging, holding the posts for hammering, hauling rolls of wire off the wagon to wherever they were wanted - Mike himself fetching hammers and nails and wire-cutters, organizing the tools for easy reach and generally doing anything which required running as an essential part of the job.

Noon came. The equipment was reloaded on to the wagon, ready to roll home. It was one of those fine warm Fall days when it seemed summer had revived and winter was still a long way off. But the shorter daylight hours meant that there was little time between schoolwork and chores for a lively youngster to simply enjoy some fun.

Slim and Jess were leaning against the wagon, drinking thankfully from their canteens. The sound of running water had been with them all morning, for a steep gully just a few feet away was gouged deep and mysterious by the falling stream it contained. It had made working in the unseasonably warm morning air all the harder. Now everyone was more than ready to head back straight away for the mid-day meal Jonesy would have waiting for them at home.

Everyone except Mike. He was intrigued by the deep split in the earth and the way it was overhung by ferns and the branches of trees. Little pools and waterfalls winked at him in the hazy sunlight. He was sure there were fish and birds and lizards and all manner of other exciting wildlife down there.

Slim, who had fastened his canteen back on Alamo's saddle, was preparing to mount. His face was thoughtful and he was obviously already reviewing the afternoon's work. Andy had climbed back into the wagon. Jess gave a soft whistle which summoned Traveller and, when the bay stepped over to him, moved away from them all to the edge of the ridge above the gully. He stood quietly, gazing out over the rolling slopes leading south; his eyes seemed to be seeing way beyond the horizon.

Mike took a look at both his guardians and made a quick decision about who he should ask.

"Jess, can I climb down the gully and meet you all at the bottom, where the ford is?"

Jess turned to focus his attention on the boy. Mike assumed an expression which combined his most responsible demeanor with intrepid enthusiasm. Jess looked at the gully. Then he looked back at Mike.

"I guess that depends on how badly you want dinner and how well you can climb, Mike," was the unexpected answer. "If you run into trouble and we've gone past before you make it, you'll have a long walk home."

Observing this exchange between his partner and his ward, Slim grinned to himself. _Trust Jess not to bother about issues like getting wet or breaking an ankle or disturbing a snake. No, Jess picked the one motivation for speed combined with caution which he undoubtedly shared with Mike – the need for plenty of food at the right time!_

"Ok, I'll be quick – 'n careful!" Mike was off like a flash before the rest of them could get started.

Behind him Slim and Jess exchanged amused looks. Slim did not give voice to any of the misgivings he might be harboring. Jess was imagining how it would feel to be so young again. Andy looked a little enviously after the younger boy, but accepted that he couldn't expect to be given responsibility, then to go dashing off on adventures. He ran a checking eye over the wagon and its load before shaking the reins to urge his team away down the hill. Slim had already mounted. Jess was quick to hop into the saddle and follow them.

Mike, meanwhile, was scrambling his way down the rocky depths of the gully. It was just as magical as he had imagined. Luxurious ferns sprang from the sides, forming a waving canopy overhead. Tree roots, covered in moss like a green pelt, thrust down thirstily into the cracks and gaps in the rocky bottom, seeking the rich, damp soil below. The stream chuckled and splashed over small waterfalls into shining pools. Shy flowers and small plants clung to the banks and edges of the water.

All the same, Mike was conscious that he could not linger. He didn't actually know how long the gully was, only that the horses and wagon had made quite a big detour after the ford over the stream. He didn't really think they'd go home without him, but he also understood Jess's words to mean that he should not delay them either. So his eyes feasted on the mysterious world into which he had penetrated, taking in the deep, jewel-like colors and the shimmering play of light which fell through the branches above him, but his feet kept moving. He was sure-footed and confident as he jumped and clambered downwards.

He had almost reached the ford when he came to a particularly wide pool, stretching from side to side of the gully leaving very little space for footholds. It was not deep and Mike could have waded through it, but he was not keen on riding home soaking wet from the knees down. Cautiously he edged his way round it, clinging precariously to the steep miniature cliff above him to keep his balance. He had almost reached the far side and the last waterfall down to the trail, when a stone turned under his hand and fell away with a splash into the pool.

In the bank right in front of him was revealed a hidden cavity. It was obviously not natural, because it was stone-lined and rectangular. Sitting in the middle of it was a small box.

Mike stared. His hand went out, then drew back sharply. There was something about the box ...

It was made of stone, a pale cream with thin veins of red running through. All over the sides and the lid were carved tiny faces, each one different. Each one was feeling a different emotion. Really feeling it - the detailed carving was that skillful. Some of the emotions were pleasant and made you want to laugh or cheer too. Some were sad or afraid. Some were so dark you wanted not to have seen them. Some showed feelings beyond the experience of a child.

Mike was fascinated. The box was beautiful and clearly very special. It was all wrong that it should be shut away in a dark hole. Surely it should have pride of place on the mantelpiece of someone's home?

But now he could hear the approaching wagon and the thud of hooves accompanying it. Mike grabbed the box hastily and thrust it into his pocket. Then he jumped down over the last waterfall, landing with an almighty splash in the pool before the ford and getting pretty wet after all. The wagon drew to a halt. Mike climbed up from the gully to join his family.

 **# # # # #**

When they got back to the ranch they found there was a visitor. Mort Cory had ridden out to join them for a half day. He was taking one of his rare rests from law-keeping and had left the town in the safe hands of his deputy, Toby Miller, for once. It didn't take much persuasion to get him to settle down on the porch for the afternoon, especially with the promise of supper to follow in the evening.

It was only when they were all sitting on the porch after the midday meal that Mike remembered the box. He felt in his pocket and drew it carefully out, marvelling that he had been unaware of its presence all the while. It was almost as if it wanted to be taken out in front of an audience.

"Look what I found!"

Curiosity, surprise, speculation were the first reactions, followed closely by a stern question from Slim about exactly where and how Mike had acquired it. Once it was established that the box had been hidden, buried even, Slim relaxed a little.

"Looks like finders keepers then, Mike," he allowed. "Provided the representative of the law says it's ok?"

Mort nodded his approval with a smile. "From what you say, Mike, it sounds as if it's been there for a long time."

"D' you think he's found buried treasure?" Andy asked eagerly, always ready for some more adventure. He looked across at Jess and winked, remembering how Jess had buried the Sherman family treasures when the ranch had been taken over by their uncle's henchmen.

Jess shook his head and his eyes narrowed as if something troubled him.

Mike dashed Andy's hopes as he confirmed: "It was the only thing in the hole."

"Just as well," Jonesy commented shrewdly, " 'cause if it wasn't, the pair of y'd be skippin' off y' chores for certain."

"Wonder if there's anything inside it?" Mike continued, but didn't get a chance to find out.

Jess stood up abruptly. "Not now, Mike. Put it somewhere safe until there's more time."

"Yeah, school work for you two for a couple of hours," Slim backed up his partner as usual. "And hard work for the rest of us."

"Exceptin' Mort," Jess pointed out with a grin. "He just gets to rest his aging bones."

"Watch yourself, boy!" Mort warned. "I've earned it." He tipped his hat over his eyes and prepared for a good snooze. He didn't even respond when the others tiptoed away with exaggerated care.

Mike put the little box on the center of the hitching rail where they would not fail to see it later.

 **# # # # #**

An industrious few hours passed before Mike finally got his wish and opened the box. He and Andy had finished their respective studies, although Andy would have more to do after supper. Mort had woken up from his prolonged nap. Jonesy had brewed fresh coffee ready for the two younger men when they finished work for the day.

Mike was nearly bursting with anticipation and jumped up and down on the corral rail, impatiently trying to spot the return of his guardians. Eventually he sighted a small cloud of dust rising over the ridge, a sure sign that Jess was on the way with some of the horse herd he was bringing in to the nearer pastures. This dust completely obscured the one raised by the wagon as Slim drove back from delivering the smithying he had carried out for a neighbor. They arrived almost simultaneously.

Both partners were hot, tired and thirsty, but neither of them would have dreamed of putting off Mike's moment of revelation.

"Go on then!" Slim slumped into a chair and gratefully accepted a mug of coffee from Jonesy.

"Will you hold it for me, Andy?" Mike was generous in sharing his enjoyment and Andy smiled in appreciation. He reached out and lifted the box from its enthronement on the rail. It felt oddly heavy in his hands, despite being relatively small. He held it out to Mike on his open palms.

"Here goes!" Mike whispered.

He lifted the lid very gently.

The box was empty.

"Oh!"

Not one of the watchers wanted to witness the disappointment on Mike's face.

"It's empty!"

"You sure?" Andy peered over the lid.

"Yeah. Unless there's something stuck in the corner." Mike put out a tentative finger.

"Don't, Mike!" Jess didn't give orders often but when he did, they were instantly obeyed - provided, of course, they did not include bath times.

"Huh?" Mike was totally puzzled.

"Just shut it and let it be empty," Jess said quietly.

"Yeah, it's beautiful, Mike, and very special. It doesn't need to contain anything," Slim added reassuringly.

"Ok." Mike was quick to recover from regret. He closed the lid carefully and took the box from Andy. "Thanks!" he smiled and Andy patted him on the shoulder, unable to offer any real consolation for this let-down.

There was a general surge of movement as Jonesy returned to cooking supper and Slim and Jess tossed for who got the shower first. Andy and Mike made off together to shut up their joint menagerie. Mort was left alone.

The box sat on the hitching rail.


	2. Chapter 2

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 **.**

 **2**

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 _If I had known before I courted_

 _that love had been so hard to win_

 _I'd have locked my heart in a box of gold_

 _and fastened it with a silver pin._

 _._

The box sat on the hitching rail.

Mort eyed it thoughtfully. It was a beautiful thing, obviously skillfully and cunningly made. Every detail of the faces made you feel as if you could hear their voices, share their thoughts …

 _Who had made it?_

He did not ask why.

Mike seemed quite happy to leave it on the rail, but Mort had an uneasy feeling the slightest jar, an extra strong puff of wind, a careless move, would result in the shattering of so much exquisite craftsmanship.

He reached out and took the box.

It was surprisingly heavy in his hands. Mort had life-experience, unlike the boys. It seemed totally unreasonable that so small a container could weigh so much.

 _Not if it was empty._

 _So it must contain something._

He raised the lid. There were two objects inside.

A golden ring. A silver pin.

Mort stared for a long moment. It felt as if, in that moment, his heart had stopped. Then, under an irresistible compulsion, he reached into the box and took out the two objects.

The golden ring was a woman's wedding band. The silver pin was his own. It had been the second thing he gave her the very first evening they met. Met by one of those mysterious chances which sometimes happen in a strange town **…**

 **…...**

 **…** Mort had not intended to trespass, that was for sure. It was not and never had been his custom to break the law. Indeed, although he was young and adventurous, he was already considering seriously the work of justice to which he would dedicate his life. It was probably his preoccupation with the future combined with the low-lying evening mist shrouding the town which led to him passing under an archway and finding himself in the garden.

It was a beautiful garden. A garden the likes of which Mort had never seen before. _Hell, he hadn't seen many gardens anywhere in his travels and most of those were strictly practical_. No-one had time in a hard pioneering life to undertake creative horticulture.

Contrary to all reasonable expectation, here someone had done precisely that. Neat graveled paths wound amongst deep beds of abundant blossom. Flowering bushes and graceful trees made living archways overhead. Somewhere a gentle stream was chuckling quietly. And floating on the air was the perfume of heaven.

Mort scarcely realized that he was following his nose. He just seemed to drift deeper and deeper into the luxuriant world. The scent grew stronger each moment. Suddenly he came to a stunning vision.

The garden opened out into a circular enclosure, a lawn roofed with the twilight canopy of mist and entirely surrounded by a wall of roses. Crimson and peach and yellow and white roses. They were so profuse that their leaves were scarcely visible. And against this softly glowing background a young woman was silhouetted. Her arm was upraised as if to pluck a flower, her head was tilted back looking at the blooms above her and her raven hair cascaded down below her waist. She was as perfect as a sculpture and as still.

It took a few seconds for Mort to perceive that she was still because she was entangled with the briar stem. In reaching for one of the higher roses, her sleeve had become caught, trapping her wrist against the plant.

Instinctively he reached out, put his right arm around her slender waist, lifting her a little so that the thorns no longer tore at her sleeve and flesh. With his free hand he grasped the stem and snapped off the rose which had captured her. His heart was captured in that moment, in the timeless space in which he set her gently on the ground again and held out the white rose.

They looked long at each other. Long and seriously. As if all that they would share was compressed into the first meeting of their eyes. She took the rose and held it against her heart. Mort unfastened the silver pin in the collar of his shirt. The silver bar brooch with its sprung pin had been his mother's. It had traveled with him for a long time, miraculously never getting lost or damaged. He reached out and gently pinned the white rose to the silky fabric of her dress. They looked at each other again. Looked and smiled.

That was all, the first evening. She bend her face to inhale the scent of the rose. Then, like a fragile wraith, she was gone into the mists and shadows of the garden.

Mort came back the next evening. The gate under the archway, which he had not seen the first time, was open again. He did not have to go far inside. She was waiting for him a little beyond the boundary, amidst the delicate fronds of the great ferns bordering the path. The rose had faded and been laid back in the garden, but she was still wearing the silver bar brooch at her breast. Hand in hand they walked slowly to the rose lawn and Mort plucked her another white rose and pinned it to her dress.

There was no need for words.

No need for him to speak his love aloud. Not yet, not when he knew only her beauty and her sensitivity. It took little time, however, for him to hear in the town of the family who owned the great mansion house and the wonderful garden which held the living jewel of his dreams. The Italian father, proud, austere – passionate for his family honor and his possessions. The mother, a cold English aristocrat – she who had desired and designed and brought into being the garden. Their single child – the daughter who had chosen not to speak since she was twelve years old.

Mort could and did declare his love to her, with words whispered in the stillness of the garden, softer than the breeze but as strong as the earth beneath them. From her own lips came only smiles and sighs. Thoughts were spoken with the fluttering of her slender hands. But they understood each other without conversation. They seemed to sense each other's needs and desires and thoughts in the same way that they felt the warmth of the setting sun on their faces. Their communication grew and deepened as the rosebuds opened and unfurled the rich heart of their petals.

All that remained was for Mort to ask for her hand in marriage. He knew well there was competition. Her heritage was from a culture where marriages were arranged to the advantage of the family. Mort was a stranger, a young man without land or wealth or connections. He had only his devotion and his integrity to offer. And the fact that she returned his love. In the depths of his being, he feared his value would not be enough, so that her family would never accept him.

On that final evening, he had come at dusk, as always. The door of the garden was half closed. There was no-one concealed among the ferns. The rose lawn was empty.

Almost without thinking, he reached out and took a white rose. He held it against his own heart. A heart which misgave, which dreaded what the empty stillness of their secret paradise might forebode. But he would not be daunted or swerve from his determination to declare his devotion and sue for his right to love and treasure her. For the first time, he began to walk slowly, silently, towards the hidden house.

The murmur of voices and the clink of glasses began to filter into his awareness. The path he was on led directly to a wide sweep of closely clipped grass with an ornate fountain in the middle. The lawn extended right up to the steps which led onto a wide portico with white pillars. Shadowy figures were standing or moving slowly against the tall windows of the house. Mort knew that he should just walk boldly up to the mansion across the open lawn, should make himself and his intentions known, but some instinct in interpreting the atmosphere held him back.

He looked left and right. To his left, a little path wound along behind the bordering flower-bed, concealed from the house by the tall bloom-laden bushes it contained. Slowly, cautiously, he made his way round until he could stand concealed below the veranda. As he came to a halt, the murmur of voices died away into a hushed expectancy. He knew, before he heard the words, that he was too late.

"Ladies, gentlemen. It is my great pleasure this evening to bestow the hand of my dear daughter on the man of her choice, a man of distinction and wealth, worthy to provide her with all to which she is accustomed. I give my consent to her marriage …"

Enthusiastic applause overwhelmed the last words. Every clap and every congratulation drove a blade of bitter ice into Mort's heart. He was cut off and shut out from his only love … unworthy … rejected … discarded … for ever … The agony was too much. He struggled to breathe against the now cloying scent of the surrounding flowers. The white rose crumpled in his hands. Its petals lay mingled with his tears on the dark earth **…**

 **…...**

 **…** But the betrayal of his love was a lie and the agony of his broken heart a tormenting illusion. Now they were somehow conjured into existence by his long-held fear that he had never been worthy of her. They bore no relation to reality.

That night she had spoken. Spoken his name. Given him her hand. Fled with him from a betrothal not of her making and a family who had taken away her voice.

This was not her ring. Her ring was at home beneath his pillow and his silver brooch pin had fastened a last white rose on her breast before her coffin was sealed.

Quietly, he closed the empty box.

The front door creaked open behind him and there were footsteps. "Supper, Mort," Jonesy told him gently. "Come on in to the table, my friend, come where you belong."

Mort rose and put the box back on the rail and went in to the home and family who welcomed him.


	3. Chapter 3

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 **3**

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… _silent, as in bleak dismay_

 _that song should thus forsaken be,_

 _on that forgotten ground there lay_

 _the broken flutes of Arcady._

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The box sat on the top of the piano.

Jonesy didn't notice it at first, absorbed as he was in drawing soft harmonies from the battered but tuneful instrument. The after-supper quiet was scarcely disturbed by his playing. Rather the music seemed to blend with the small sounds: the crackle of the logs in the fire, the soft click of pieces as Mike and Slim played checkers, the rustle of Mort's newspaper, the scratch of Andy's pen, the scrape of Jess's knife on the wood he was whittling. Evenings were beautiful times, in Jonesy's opinion, when all the work was completed and folk could rest, satisfied they had done their best that day.

The box was a beautiful thing too, obviously cunningly made by a skill equal to that of any musician. Jonesy's fingers skipped across the keys, trying to find a melody which suited the box. His fingers were a lot stiffer than they had once been, but their talent had not lessened over the years. Rather it had grown richer. His eyes lifted to the box again, trying to discern its essence. Every detail of the faces made you feel as if you could hear their voices, share their thoughts …

 _Who had made it?_

He did not ask why.

Jonesy thought Mike had left it outside on the rail. He'd been meaning to issue a stern reprimand for such behavior, because the slightest jar, an extra strong puff of wind, a careless move, would result in the shattering of so much exquisite craftsmanship. He was glad now that he didn't have to, especially when Mike had been so disappointed to find it empty. It was hard for a kid to be disappointed … to have their hopes dashed and their dreams destroyed.

He continued to improvise with one hand. With the other, he reached out and took the box.

It was surprisingly heavy in his fingers. Nothing like anything of similar size which he had held before. It seemed totally unreasonable that so small a container could weigh so much.

 _Not if it was empty._

 _So it must contain something._

He stopped playing and raised the lid.

There were two objects inside. Or rather, there was one object, broken in two.

It was a little flute, very old and delicately fashioned out of a single ivory bone.

Jonesy stared for a long moment. In that moment, his heart was plunged into a deeply buried misery. As memory exerted an irresistible compulsion, he reached into the box and took out the two pieces of the flute **…**

 **…...**

 **…** They were lying in the dust of his childhood. He knelt beside them, trying to see how to fit the snapped ends together. But even if he did, even if there was glue strong enough to bind together such thin surfaces, he knew the true music from the flute would be gone for ever.

It was his first instrument. All his short life he had longed desperately for some proper means of making music, to free the torrent of melody dammed up in his soul. Every cent of his meager earnings for innumerable errands and odd jobs had gone to buy the little flute from a travelling peddler. He was ten years old and his dreams lay in pieces at his feet.

For the next five years, music remained locked inside him. He imagined it battering against his ribs and pressing on his spine as he learnt to live with the increasingly frequent pain from his back. A scrawny boy with a crooked shoulder, he had endured silently the teasing and bullying of other kids and their mindless destruction of his beloved flute. He grew gradually into a young man already shrewd and stoic in the face of the vagaries of the world. It never soured him. In his heart and soul, the captive music remained sweet, awaiting its release. That finally came when poverty and scarcity of work drove him out in search of a living, He fell in with a group of travelling entertainers. It was like coming home! Suddenly the boy who could not play had access to many instruments and every one of them released the melodies he had treasured so long.

No one taught him. He was a natural.

Gradually he moved westward: a young man with a twisted spine who would never ride a horse or herd a steer with the required skill and endurance. Instead he learnt how to keep body and soul together in the wilderness, with plain food, homely remedies and soul-cheering melodies. He found friendship and unrequited love and a home of which he was an integral, irreplaceable part. All the while, music poured out of him from a deep spring of passion via any instrument which could stand up to the rough life of the trail. But he never forgot the broken flute.

Jonesy looked down at the two pieces of carved ivory in his hand **…**

… **...**

…

He shivered. Evening was drawing in. He felt the shadows drawing in too. Closing in on him. Taking the warmth of the day and leaving a cool stillness which no melody broke. The last light of the setting sun streamed in through the window of his room which looked west. It _was_ his room. He knew that without a doubt. The bed against the north wall and the view at its foot through the south window over the paddock – the chair under the west window – the piano against the east wall, close by the external door with its glazed pane. It was _his_ room! But it wasn't the relay station. It was home, but not the home he had first found and cherished for so many years. In this other home, he knew with a sure instinct that he was cherished too. Knew it as surely as he knew that the glazed door of his room led into the yard and that the house faced south and that a stream ran down across the meadow and spread into a deep bathing pool.

All this he knew, standing in the fading light, with the broken flute in his hands.

From beyond the door there was a flurry of movement. A female voice called out suddenly: "Micah! What are you up to?"

Jonesy heard the sound of small feet scrabbling and a giggle and guessed – no, knew! – that an intrepid child was climbing where he had no business to be.

"I've got him!" a man's voice answered in a stern growl, which tried unsuccessfully to mask the speaker's obvious desire to laugh.

"You would!" The woman was half exasperated, half amused. "You probably encouraged him. You're as bad as he is!"

The man chuckled. "Well, whose son is he?" He sounded entirely unrepentant.

There was a rush of running feet. More children. An older boy called out: "I'll bring him down. Come here, little hellion!"

There was an indignant squeal from the headstrong explorer. Merriment and movement. The sound of scrambling and sliding and the thud of an adult jumping down from somewhere quite high. More laughter and probably hugging: Jonesy knew from experience it was no good chiding this child, even if his parents had been inclined to do so. Footsteps and voices and laughter were dimmed as the family gathered into the house for the evening meal.

Jonesy knew he was welcome at the table. More than welcome. He was an integral part of this family, this household, this home.

He stood without moving for a long while. The sunset faded gradually to a silver twilight. Through the window in the door of his room, he could see lamplight streaming from the house windows - gilding the porch and the plants along its edge, glinting on the metal of a bridle which dangled from a hook on one of the uprights, throwing a long beam of welcome down the steps and into the now dark yard.

Still he did not move. He stood holding the two pieces of the broken flute and looking back across the long vista of his own life.

At last he seemed to drift through the twilight until he was standing in front of the old piano. The piano Jess had given him. The piano Mary Sherman would have loved to hear him play. The piano which had become the most important instrument of release for all the music still inside him. Silently, delicately, Jonesy put the pieces of the flute on top of the piano. He stretched out his freed fingers and touched the worn ivory of the keys.

No sound came. There was no music. His hands moved over the notes but the melody was to be heard no more.

Silence.

Utter stillness.

And two pieces of an ivory flute became one as if they had never been broken.

A sense of lightness.

A tendril of harmony swirling and stretching down to call him, guide him. Music like no other. Living music which needed no instrument. At last **…**

 **…...**

 **…** "You've stopped playing, Jonesy!" Andy's arm came round his shoulders in a warm hug. "Won't you give us another tune?"

"Not yet …" Jonesy whispered as his eyes opened on the lamp lit living room of the relay station. "Not yet …"

"Please - now!" Andy mistook his meaning. "It's a special part of our evenings and Mort doesn't get to hear you make music very often."

"Yeah, and you promised to teach me to play with both hands!" Mike bounced up on his other side.

All three looked down at the box in Jonesy's hands. There was nothing in it.

After a moment, Jonesy heaved in a deep breath and said: "Guess I'm gonna need both of mine, then, Mike."

He gently closed the lid of the box and put it back on top of the piano. His hands moved over the worn ivory of the keys and music flowed from them.


	4. Chapter 4

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 **4**

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 _He girt the saddle to the steed,_

 _the bridle of the best gold shone._

 _He took his leave of his fellows all_

 _and quickly he was gone._

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The box sat on the corner of the mantelpiece.

It caught Andy's eye as he was stacking his books away neatly on the shelf. Care of books was one of the things Slim was really firm about and Andy had come to appreciate the value that his elder brother put on them. Andy wondered vaguely how the box had got there. He'd been sure Jonesy had put it on the top of the piano while he played. He gave a shrug. It was Mike's and Mike would probably want it to have pride of place at the heart of the living room. Andy couldn't disagree. The box was a beautiful thing, obviously made with great skill and delicate precision. Every detail of the faces made you feel as if you could hear their voices, share their thoughts …

 _Who had made it?_

He did not ask why.

Andy finished his tidying and came to a halt again in front of the little box. There was so much exquisite craftsmanship in it that it seemed out of place amongst the usual homely clutter of knives, string, a half-finished carving, cigarette papers, some cartridge cases and a empty checkers box. Andy frowned. Both photographs of his parents were at the other end, since the box occupied the place of one of them.

 _It was a bit of a cheek from Mike, moving the pictures like that!_

He reached out and took the box, intending to restore proper order to his home. Once again he was instantly aware of how surprisingly heavy it was in his hands. It seemed totally unreasonable so small a container could weigh so much.

 _Not if it was empty._

 _So Mike must be wrong. It must contain something._

He raised the lid.

There were two objects inside.

Andy stared for a long moment. In that moment, his heart leapt violently with an excitement he had almost forgotten. Things had changed on the ranch since the time when he had been so desperate to escape from it. Being a virtual prisoner in his uncle's house and later going away to school had certainly given him an experience of travel, but not of escape. In both cases, he was still confined to a permanent dwelling and its immediate surroundings, when he had always wanted wider horizons and changing scenery and different challenges. He raised his eyes and realized that the box had been immediately under the secret compartment in the chimney-breast where Jess's gunfighter's gun lay wrapped in silk, hidden from the everyday world.

Driven by a sudden, irresistible compulsion, Andy reached into the box and took out the two objects. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or to give a rebellious yell of triumph.

In his hands were playing card - the Queen of Hearts - and a slice of apple pie.

Moving in a dream, still holding the objects and the box, he drifted across the room, through the kitchen and stealthily out of the back door. Yes, he had almost forgotten how close he had come to escaping **…**

 **…...**

 **…** Escaping, once and for all! The thought was uppermost in Andy's mind when the dark-haired stranger rode up and halted his horse by the corral. It was immediately obvious from his worn clothing and his well-kept gear that he was an experienced traveler, someone used to riding alone across the vast wilderness between little pioneer towns. Someone who earned his own living and paid his own way and asked permission from no-one.

This stranger had turned up just when Jonesy had been extolling the virtues of having a brother like Slim – the brother who, in Andy's mind, was the domineering obstructer of any chance Andy had of freedom, totally unsympathetic to the things which mattered to him most. But the stranger was interested, despite his quest for someone who had injured him. Moreover, he showed an immediate affinity for Andy's animals and for apple pie!

It was this simple appreciation of ordinary home cooking which first endeared Jess Harper to Andy. That and his willingness to share his expertise at poker, which of course made Andy feel six foot tall! So much had passed between them in the conversation over Jess's meal and the subsequent lesson in gambling. Jess's words seemed like common sense: 'If you want to win at poker, you'd better learn how it's done!" Andy had no idea, at the time, how necessary such a life skill was.

Slim, of course, had no appreciation whatsoever of his little brother learning life-skills from a passing drifter. Despite Jonesy's determined attempts to distract him and the fact that Jess was a guest, entitled to hospitality, all Slim did was insult him and question his integrity.

Andy was incensed. For once someone had treated him as a person with individual worth, not just a child to be ordered around and corrected and kept from anything exciting. He was delighted and couldn't believe his luck when Jess snapped out: "He's talkin' me into takin' you along!"

His brother was equally incensed, bent on seeing the no good saddle-tramp off the premises the quickest way possible. It was, nonetheless, a mistake to take Jess's gun a second time, as Slim was shortly to find out.

When Jess accused him of beating Andy, it was the last straw. Slim grabbed Jess to grapple with him and flung him against the wall. But the saddle-tramp had been in far dirtier fights than an honest rancher. He lunged forward, head-butting Slim ferociously in the stomach and winding him so badly that he doubled over. As Slim's head came down and he gasped for breath, Jess's fist connected with his jaw in a punch which laid his opponent out flat on the rug. Jess straightened up, his boot on the wrist of the hand which was still holding his gun.

"No-one takes my gun!" he snarled. "I let y' off last time. This time, y' ain't gonna be so lucky."

"Neither are you, boy!" Jonesy interrupted. "Stage is due any minute and they won't give you no friendly reception while y' standin' on the Stage Stop owner. Just git, while the goin's good!"

Jess looked down at Slim and his blue eyes blazed with fury. "I ain't gonna forget this! If I find out you've laid a finger on this kid brother of yours, I'll make you pay." He bent and prized his gun savagely from Slim's fingers. In that single action, Andy knew for certain his new friend was in no way domesticated.

"I never –" Slim gasped and at the same time Jonesy spoke over him. "Andy's safe. He belongs here. He owns half the ranch. Now leave well alone an' git the hell outta here!"

"He owns his own life!" Jess retorted. He turned to Andy. "I promised I'd come back when you've got t' shavin', Andy. If you still want to, you can light out with me then."

Seconds later he had grabbed his hat and his jacket and was gone.

Stunned silence filled the living room as the door slammed shut. Andy could not believe it. He'd been so close, so close … everything was prepared. He had only to saddle Cyclone and he would be free! He'd told them straight, he'd go with Jess or without him and no-one could stop him! **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

Andy rode determinedly south, the opposite direction to the one he had seen Jess depart in a cloud of angry dust. He'd made his escape while Slim and Jonesy were distracted by some passenger calling himself Bob or Bud or some such name, who was getting worked up about the late arrival of the next stage. Andy figured Slim would try to track him the moment he realized what had happened and did his best to confuse his trail before finally turning back towards the north. He was not particularly successful, but he didn't know this at the time; it was only later, when he'd seen Jess in action, that he understood how many clues he'd left. And only after a much longer time and distance did he wonder why his brother had not caught up with him.

Meanwhile, he figured Jess would not travel through Laramie again if he'd already been shot at there. The next best route to take you north was to follow the valley below Baxter's Ridge. Andy pushed the palomino as hard as he could go. It was not a sensible proceeding if he hoped to travel any distance, but he was beyond common sense in his desperation to catch Jess up.

His success in doing so nearly earned him a bullet.

Jess had halted in a hollow, high up on the ridge, debating how to continue his pursuit of Pete Morgan. By sheer luck, Andy had been letting his pony pick his own path; Cyclone had scented another horse and made straight for it. Andy found himself looking down the barrel of Jess's gun for the second time that day.

"Dear God! Have you got some kind of death-wish, Andy!" The hand with the gun never shook, but Jess's voice did. "What the he… - what in tarnation are you doin' here?"

"I'm not going back!" Andy asserted stoutly. "I told them I'd leave. With you if you'll have me, but on my own if I must. No-one can stop me!"

Jess's blue eyes narrowed and his dark brows drew together as for the first time Andy saw his formidable frown. "You think that brother of yours is gonna let you prove him wrong? He'll be so close on your back-trail he'll be polishin' your saddle for y'."

Andy frowned in his turn. "I'm not stupid. I hid my back-trail."

The skepticism evident on Jess's face goaded Andy into further justification: "I packed my gear and supplies. I can look after myself."

"Get down!" Jess's hand shot out and tipped him onto the grass at the bottom of the hollow. By the time Andy had recovered from this abrupt treatment, Jess had ducked and edged behind a boulder. "Keep y' darn fool head down!" He followed his own advice as he peered cautiously round the boulder and over the edge of the ridge.

Andy could make nothing of what had alerted Jess until, after a few minutes, his ears picked up the unmistakable sound of a stage coach driven in a hurry. It drew nearer and then halted somewhere down in the valley below. They could hear the sound of men's voices, although the words were not clearly distinguishable. Suddenly there came a triumphant laugh, a high-pitched guffaw which would always be easily identifiable.

Jess swore under his breath. "Well, I'll be damned! Pete Morgan!" he whispered to himself. Then, "Wonder who he's teamed up with this time? On his way t' hell!"

His tone was so bitter and implacable that Andy flinched involuntarily. Jess caught up his horse's reins and hopped into the saddle in a style Andy would come to recognise as characteristic. He seemed to remember Andy only because the palomino tried to kick the other horse as it passed. Jess frowned again.

"Stay here. Keep y' head down. If I don't come back, go home!"

The next moment, he was gone.

Andy's heart was thudding so hard he was sure the men below would hear it. He was also certain that they meant no good, because Jess obviously thought he might come off worst in the encounter. Suddenly life on the trail lost more than a little of its luster. But he could not desert Jess. He had to know what was happening. He edged carefully up to the boulder Jess had hidden behind and cautiously looked round it.

In the valley below, he could see a small number of men grouped close to a stage coach. They were clearly in high spirits and congratulating themselves on pulling off a robbery or some similar villainy: there was no other reason for a stage to be so far from the main route. Jess was riding slowly down towards them, his hand well clear of his gun, a picture of nonchalant harmlessness.

One of the men broke away from the group and strode out to meet the approaching rider. His bellowed greeting carried over in the still air: "Jess Harper! Didn't think t' see you around here."

Jess jumped down from his horse. Whether he replied to the greeting or not was a moot point, but the exchange rapidly escalated. In no time the two men were staggering and lunging as they traded furious blows. Andy held his breath, but he need not have bothered. He was seeing, also for the first time, Jess Harper in action when something had really lit his short fuse by offending his personal integrity.

The other man did not last long. As soon he was down Jess started rifling through his pockets, bent, presumably, on regaining at least something of the money which had been stolen from him. Surprisingly, the outlaws made no attempt to stop him. If Andy had been a more seasoned observer, he would have noted that the leader of the band seemed to be amused by the whole incident. It was an attitude which was about to change dangerously.

Jess pocketed what was his and backed away to his horse. As he turned to mount, the other man showed once more his treacherous nature. He rolled over and pulled his gun, all in one swift movement. But Jess was faster. For the third time that day, Andy witnessed the lightning speed of his draw. This time a man lay dead because of it.

Andy had never seen anyone killed in a gunfight, although he'd witnessed plenty of injuries and more than one Indian attack to which pioneer life was prone. His heart pounded even faster and his whole being seemed to be resonating with the crack of the gun, impact of the bullet and the sudden cessation of living movement.

The men in the gang were momentarily stunned at the young gunman's speed, but the instant they moved, Jess's gun turned on them too. Andy saw him make a sweeping gesture, which seemed to indicate that they should think the better of attacking him. There was a moment of stand-off, after which Jess gestured again, this time to the slope of the valley leading back to Laramie. In the far distance there was a dust cloud created by a sizable group of riders. A posse, maybe?

Jess backed off once more and this time succeeded in mounting his horse. While he made his getaway up the slope towards Andy, the gang were hastily mounting the horses which one of their number had brought with him. It was clear they intended to hightail it out of the valley as soon as possible. The leader yelled something at Jess's back, but the wind took the words away **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

The next twenty four hours taught Andy the meaning of life on the trail. When Jess rejoined him, he was definitely not in the mood to talk. He regarded Andy for some minutes as if he were an insoluble problem and then said shortly: "Y'd better come with me for now. They ain't no company for a kid!" His head jerked in the direction of the valley.

The ride which ensued was the hardest Andy had ever done. Jess was determined to obscure their trail completely, traversing the most challenging terrain and using every body of water, some of which meant swimming. His horse could climb like a goat and was undeterred by whatever obstacle faced them. Jess only stopped eventually because Cyclone was visibly flagging; he was just Andy's personal mount, not used to working so hard or travelling so far.

"We'll have to leave him behind." It was the first thing Jess had said for hours. He'd simply assumed that Andy would follow exactly what he did. Andy had found out with a couple of hard falls that 'exactly' was absolutely necessary if he was to survive.

"What?"

But Andy's indignant protests were cut off when his companion pointed out: "He's way too conspicuous. A kid riding a palomino? You'll be spotted straight away the first place we have to pass through."

"But –"

"Andy, your brother ain't gonna let you go. You'll be hauled back to the ranch. It's his right under the law."

"I won't let him!"

"Y' can't stop him. And y'know what'll happen after that? I'll be arrested for kidnapping." Jess paused, letting Andy take in the implication. When light dawned on Andy, Jess nodded and affirmed: "That's a hanging offence."

They rode steadily for the remainder of the day. Ate jerky and stale bread. Did without a revealing camp-fire. Slept under a tree.

Getting rid of a palomino pony proved more difficult than it sounded. If they turned Cyclone loose, he would simply follow them. If they succeeded in selling him to an isolated ranch or a passing drifter, it would mean someone else knew the route they had taken. If they went anywhere near a town, they'd be spotted. And there was no way you could re-color a whole horse without getting supplies from somewhere. Nor could they simply tie him up and leave him. Eventually a chance encounter solved their problem for them. Jess found signs which enabled him to locate a Sioux encampment, where he managed to make a trade. Andy was deeply unhappy, but at least he knew Cyclone would be cared for. It was either this or keep his pony and ride home with his tail between his legs. Jess was adamant.

The new pony was much more fit for the life of drifting. Andy was not.

Day after day they went on through the wilderness. Every day they had to catch and cook their own supper or eat it raw if circumstances demanded; no wonder Jess appreciated apple pie! It was necessary to keep going in all but the very worst the weather, during which they had to make do with whatever natural shelter they could find. On very steep stretches of the journey, they had to walk miles uphill if it spared the horses. Sure, Jess taught him skills as they went along, but those had more to do with sheer survival than with thrilling adventure. If Andy had hoped that travel would broaden his horizons, it was only the sheer scope of the landscape which did so. Jess avoided towns completely except when they ran out of all supplies and then he made Andy wait in hiding while he rode in to stock up. So much for the glamorous life of the big towns! Although Andy did not know it, Jess also checked to see if they had been posted as 'Wanted' and if so, for what. When they did at last arrive somewhere Jess considered they were unlikely to have been tracked to, it was not a thrilling frontier town. Just another dusty single-street settlement, no different from the Laramie they had left so far behind.

Andy's hopes of excitement were soon dashed. Jess found a respectable boarding house with a severe proprietress and proceeded to inveigled her into providing a bath and a square meal for them both. He could provide charm in spadefuls when he chose to, enough to talk the crows right out of their roost. But while Jess went out at night to supplement their depleted finances with a little card play – the landlady did not come cheap, despite the charm! - Andy found himself in a situation and atmosphere which made the relay station look like freedom palace. It was the same every place they arrived at – Andy stayed in, his companion went out. Sometimes Jess would come back with a couple of bruises and once a cut lip, but he never commented on any fights he'd been in. Very occasionally he stayed out all night and returned in the morning looking tired but inexplicably smug. But it only happened when he was sure Andy was safe in a trustworthy establishment.

This formed the pattern of their travels. Jess could be good company, ready with a tale or a joke or a little horseplay, when the situation warranted it. But there was a wariness about him which Andy had not noticed in their relaxed conversation at the ranch. He had never appreciated how much skill and alertness and attention to detail the life of a drifter required. In many ways, Jess's care for Andy could have been Slim's, although, after the early days, he always tried to include Andy in assessing situations and making decisions about them. He just avoided scrupulously any action which Slim could hold against him – and that included taking Andy into saloons.

Nonetheless, eventually, as they drifted east through Montana and then turned south, they arrived at a town with no boarding houses and no hotels. There was nothing for it but to put up at the one saloon. That night was the first time Andy had ever eaten in a bar. It was much less pleasurable than he had imagined. For a start the food was just about edible. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and beer fumes and lamp-oil and sweat. The place was hardly clean - and the customers and their sense of humor matched it. Andy learnt for the first time the jibes Jess had endured about his choice of companion, even though he did not fully understand their import. That night, Jess sat up the whole night in the rocking chair, his rifle across his knees. Andy hardly slept either, despite having the bed to himself. They rode out at first light.

Before winter came they managed to secure a place on a big ranch. Jess was a reliable and competent worker and particularly skilled with horses. Andy made himself useful wherever willingness and energy were wanted. It was, however, not much different from the endless chores on the relay station. There was less work in winter itself, but they were lucky because the rancher's wife seemed to have a soft spot for strays. Or perhaps it was that she hoped the dark-haired Texan stray had some soft feelings for her? Andy had had to mature fast and was getting better at recognizing such things, but he was never really sure what Jess's needs and desires were. Certainly, in this instance, spring saw them leaving as fast as their fit and rested horses would carry them.

Another year passed. Andy grew taller, leaner, harder and more competent at surviving. Jess refused to teach him a gunman's skills, but otherwise Andy was able to hold his own and keep Jess's back in a fight. He could even win occasionally at poker, despite his revealing face. They had enough money most times to keep them in reasonable comfort, but it was not the glamourous life Andy had imagined.

In all this time, they heard nothing about Laramie and less than nothing about the relay station. Andy knew Jess had made inquiries when occasion presented itself, but they were fruitless. The only thing remotely connecting them with the town they had left behind was the news that the gang they had encountered had eventually been arrested. "And good riddance!" Jess said vehemently.

It was all in the past – or so they thought. But the past has a habit of throwing a long rope into the future to bring down hope and hog-tie freedom.

They had just stopped for a few days' rest at a deserted line shack they'd come across. It was isolated and peaceful: exactly the kind of place to break a testing ride across particularly challenging country far south of Wyoming. They got a fire going and gathered bracken for bedding and set about creating a meal from the supplies they were carrying. Andy was stirring the stew and Jess had gone outside to fetch some more water when there was the sound of hooves.

"Jess Harper! Didn't think to see me again in a hurry, did you, boy?" The voice sounded both harsh and humorous at the same time. It was also vaguely familiar.

"Ain't hurryin' anywhere." Jess, on the other hand, sounded guarded. Andy could visualize his right hand hovering over his gun and the subtle movement of the finger and thumb of his left. He had been with Jess long enough now to know exactly how he reacted in this kind of situation and could interpret his tone pretty accurately.

"Well that's good news!" the stranger replied jovially. "It sure has taken me a long time to track you down and pay you what I owe you."

"Y' ain't in my debt," Jess responded, sounding even more wary.

"Yeah, maybe I just phrased it wrong. You're going to pay me what you owe me."

"And what's that?" Jess sounded supremely uninterested.

Flattening himself against the wall, Andy edged round until he could peer out of the window. As luck would have it, the stranger had dismounted and Jess was directly in Andy's line of sight. There was no way Andy could get a shot at the man without the risk of hitting Jess. Meanwhile the stranger was grinning – the kind of grin you see on some evilly inclined creature who is about to take a chunk out of you.

"A life for a life, Harper. You killed one of my men. I don't forget that."

"Guess he was askin' to be killed then," Jess replied contemptuously. "If he reckoned he could beat me, he was obviously wrong."

"You still have to pay."

"Maybe you should pay faster gunmen!"

"Maybe you should prove just how fast you are!"

Almost simultaneously, two shots rang out.

Andy saw Jess jerk sideways, dodging the bullet. The stranger fell to the ground. In a flash, Andy was out of the line shack, entirely forgetting Jess's oft repeated injunction to anticipate and look out for more than one attacker.

"Who is it?" Andy bent over the fallen body.

The man heaved and coughed, blood running from his mouth. "I'm Bud Carlin, kid. And I never forget anything. No one interferes with my business!"

"But we never –"

"Your partner there took out one of my men. Something about being robbed." Carlin laughed harshly, which made him cough again. The blood was worse. "He'll pay like that fool at the relay station – the one who thought he could stop me taking the stage and breaking Pete out of prison. Guess he thinks better of it now!"

"What d'you mean?" Andy's heart clenched in pain and fear.

"I mean I shot him! Right there in that miserable little ranch house where you can't see further than the end of your nose! And the old man too." Carlin choked and the blood rattled in his throat. "No one stops me … they just die trying …"

The rasping sound of Carlin's breath died away. Andy stared down at him, stricken and appalled.

"It can't be true!" he yelled wildly. "It can't! I've got to get back to them!"

Andy jumped precipitately to his feet. He rushed into the line shack, dowsed the fire and grabbed their gear. "Come on, Jess! We've got to go back. I've got to get home!"

Fortunately the horses were still saddled. Andy fastened up the saddlebags, the bedding and the rest of their gear.

All the while, Jess was motionless, his gun hanging slack against his thigh. When Andy mounted up, he seemed to come to himself and gave the soft whistle which summoned Traveller. Soon they were heading north in the direction of Laramie, leaving Carlin's body where it had fallen.

"It can't be true," Andy kept muttering desperately. "It can't be. Slim isn't dead."

His companion remained silent, as if respecting the fury of Andy's guilt and grief. When Andy looked across at him, he saw that Jess was swaying in the saddle.

"Jess, are you ok?"

There was no reply. Jess slumped forward and slid off his faithful mount to lie in a pool of blood

The road north was long and dark and bitter. The wind blew cold in Andy's face as he traveled on alone. The world was edged with shadows. Grief gripped his heart and mind with hands of steel.

At last he came to his home. To what had once been his home. The stage stop sign had gone. The corral fence was down. The barn was a dank, hollow cavern. The ranch house door swung drunkenly on one hinge.

Andy stumbled to his knees on the broken steps of the porch. His head bowed and he gave in to the darkness **…**

 **…...**

 **…** "Hey, thought you'd gone off midnight fishing!" There was a teasing voice and a warm, strong hand on his shoulder. "Come on in to the fire. We're missing you."

Andy looked up at his brother. His marvelously alive and loving and generous brother. He leapt to his feet and seized Slim in a ferocious hug, his mind still reeling from the shock.

Such was his fervor he nearly put his foot on the open box, which he had dropped on the intact step as he knelt there.

"Better bring that in," Slim advised with a grin, "or Mike'll be after us."

"Yeah." Andy looked once more inside the box. The slice of apple pie had vanished, but just for a moment the playing card flickered in his sight, as fast as Jess might have dealt it.

It was the Ace of Spades.

Then there was nothing. Andy closed the box and walked with his brother through the familiar squeaky door into the house. The lamp-lit room was unchanged. Jess was still peacefully whittling by the fire. He looked up and his eyes glinted with all untamable free spirit which had first attracted Andy. Jess too was undeniably alive and totally himself.

Andy heaved a huge sigh of relief and put the box carefully back on the mantelpiece.


	5. Chapter 5

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.

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 **5**

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 _When we are young and wake from sleep,_

 _what pillow-fights we share with life!_

 _We laugh and punch and never dream_

 _how death can end that joyful strife._

 _._

The box sat on the pile of bills on Slim's desk, like some highly ornate paperweight.

Slim frowned. He could have sworn Andy put it down on the mantelpiece when they came in from the porch. _Odd that he should have been kneeling on the steps outside, staring into it … Mike must have given it him to have a closer look._ Not that Andy's interest was in any way surprising. The box was beautiful, a work of masterly skill and cunning. The faces were so highly detailed they made you feel as if you could hear their voices, share their thoughts …

 _Who had made it?_

He did not ask why.

Slim wondered if Mike had moved it into his desk for safe-keeping. It might be made of stone, but carelessness, rough handling or some other domestic accident could easily result in the shattering of such exquisite craftsmanship. No wonder Mike had been so excited about it, for finding a treasure like that was one of the high-points of boyhood. A child would naturally want to rescue this precious object from its dark burial.

 _A child …_

Almost in a dream, Slim reached out and picked up the box.

It was surprisingly heavy. It seemed shocking so small a container could weigh so much, as if it was burdened with something very dense or maybe very precious. Slim tried to think of a substance heavy enough to cause such an effect, because it just seemed impossible that the little box could be pressing on his hands like this.

 _Not if it was empty._

 _So it must contain something._

He raised the lid.

There were two objects inside.

Slim stared for a long moment. It was a moment which unwound the years he was carrying and refurbished the living room as it had once been when it was newly made. His heart surged with a mixture of joy and pain. These twin emotions compelled him irresistibly: he reached into the box and took out the two objects.

In his hands were a roughly carved little wooden cat and a paper label with string attached.

He could feel the vibration of the knife, making the tendons of his hands and wrist ache as he strove to create the shape of the cat from a rough block of wood. He was biting his lips, his eyes screwed up with concentration because it was so precious, so important to complete it for the birthday **…**

 **…...**

 **…** It had taken him a long time to carve the cat or at least so it seemed to his seven year old fingers. Little Yell loved cats with a passion surprising in one so young. But then, every single thing his little brother did was done with an energy and determination quite out of proportion to his size.

He was three years younger than Slim and his birth had been the most amazing thing that had happened in Slim's short life. Christened Nathaniel Simon Sherman, his brother's names proved too much for a small Slim, who heard only the last part of the first name and immediately named his brother 'Yell'! As they grew up Nathaniel's lively vocal and physical presence probably deserved the nickname. Everyone else called him 'Nat', but still, when the two brothers were alone and exploring, he was always 'Little Yell' to Slim.

Life on a frontier ranch was hard, precarious and posed many threats to the safety and happiness of the family. Nevertheless, those early years were full of joy for Slim, or rather Matthew as he was still known at this stage. Fun and laughter and jokes and mock-fights filled the brothers' days and enlightened the toil of the adults working the ranch. The youngsters had to work too, but it was no chore – Slim, even at this early stage, was highly responsible and Nat had a natural zest for life and a love for all the livestock, particularly the cats. The two boys were inseparable. The elder never lost patience with the need of the younger for support. The younger never failed to trust and follow the elder. Whatever adventure Slim could find in the vicinity of the house, Nat would be close on his heels.

He was close on Slim's heels that day. Slim had crept away on his own for once, climbing into the hayloft to finish off his carving, his present for his brother's birthday a few short days away. Just as he retrieved it from its hiding place between two beams, there was the sound of eager feet on the ladder. Little Yell's head appeared through the hatch.

"Wait, Yell!" Slim turned his back hastily to conceal what he had in his hand. "Just a minute – stop there!" He frantically wrapped the label round his carving and thrust it back into its hiding place.

But, as his brother pulled himself off the ladder and onto the boards, one of the yard cats emerged from its nest in the straw, a kitten dangling from its mouth. Little Yell straightened up with a squeal of delight and bent to caress the animals. His foot slipped on the edge of the hatch. He disappeared. Seconds later there was a sickening thud.

Slim was just seven years old when he climbed down the ladder and found the lifeless body of his beloved brother lying at the foot, his neck broken by the fall.

The carving of the little cat was never finished. Slim never fastened on it the label bearing his message of love in a round, childish hand. He never told anyone what he had been working on quietly and secretly. Even his parents did not know what he was doing. The cat remained tucked away in a crevice in the barn beams where Slim had hidden it, buried it as his brother had been buried just above the house.

And every time Slim went into the barn, for a very long time, his heart and mind reached out to touch the little cat and renew his love for his brother.

Surprisingly, he did not develop a complex about the barn or the ladder. The place was too important in the life of the ranch for it to be avoided because of painful memories. Slim knew, with a realism of beyond his years, that the building was not to blame nor the cat nor his brother. It was one of those sudden changes of fortune, like floods and droughts and Indian raids, which struck when you least expected them. What he could not forgive himself was how he had turned away when he might have been able to catch the falling boy.

Maturity brought him to realize that any such action would probably have resulted in both of them falling and, at the very least, being seriously injured. Gradually, as the guilt and grief became a part of who he was, it shaped his attitude for ever. Slim Sherman would never willingly turn his back on anyone again. The loss taught an already loving and generous heart to take responsibility for others and to protect them.

There was no more brothers or sisters to protect. As Slim grew older, successive siblings died during birth or as infants susceptible to diseases for which there was no remedy, not even at Jonesy's loving and wise hands. Slim worked the ranch alongside his father, their hearts and minds both given to the same objective: the establishment of a secure, successful home in the finest country there was. He grew to be level-headed and cautious, not just because this was in his nature, but because it spared his mother some of the heart-wrenching concern for the safety of her only son.

'Only' until another six long years had passed. Then Andrew Issachar Sherman was born, lived and began to thrive. It was a miracle for them all. And it was something of a miracle that this third son did not get thoroughly spoiled by everyone on the ranch: his life was indeed a 'recompense' for all the grief which had befallen them. He proved to have a strength of character which lived up to his first name, together with an intuitive empathy for others and a skill with animals which matched that of the brother he had never known. For Slim there was finally someone to protect and watch over responsibly.

All this welled up in Slim's heart as he carefully replaced the carved cat with its poignant label in the stone box.

He stood up abruptly, muttering something about doing the night-check. This was a task he was never really relaxed about handing over to anyone else, even though he knew for certain Jess and Jonesy were both utterly reliable. He felt, rather than heard, the murmurs of affectionate amusement which followed him out of the door.

Soon he was standing in the dark barn. He took down and lit the lantern. It threw a little pool of brightness like a discarded halo at the foot of the loft ladder. Slim began to climb, a little awkwardly at first until he could reach up and put the lantern on the loft floor. When he set foot on it himself, he was once more a child and seeking to rescue the precious object from its dark burial.

The opening of the small hollow between the two beams was still blocked by the paper of the label. When Slim reached out to remove it, it crumpled into dust beneath his fingers. But the carving was as solid as it had been under his knife that last day.

The wooden cat lay in his hands. Every stroke of his knife was clear in its rough little body. A gift of love never given or received.

A wrenching gulp tore Slim's throat. For twenty years he had held within him tears he longed to shed. He wept now **…**

 **…...**

 **…** There was the sound of agile feet on the ladder. A dark head appeared through the hatch.

"Wait!" Slim sprang forward and grabbed Jess's arm with his free hand, hauling him away from the edge of the opening. The violent response made them both stagger to regain their balance and Slim flung his arms round his partner in a desperate hug.

Taken completely by surprise, Jess was nonetheless swift to curb his instinctive reaction that this was the start of a mock fight, the sort they sometimes indulged in. Slim's dilated pupils and the rapid pulse beating in his throat quelled any such a response. A gleam of moisture clung to his friend's eyelashes and Jess could see his own face reflected in the tiny drops.

So he returned the hug and said softly, "It's ok, I'm fine."

"Yeah!" Slim nodded and let him go, relief flooding his eyes and face as he accepted Jess's familiar, if often less than accurate, response. This time all was well. Slim's breathing slowed a little and some of the tension left his shoulders and his back straightened once more.

Jess picked up the lantern. "Come on, pard'ner. Let's finish this together."

"Yeah." Slim followed him down the ladder to the shadowy barn.

Once more the lantern made its simple halo of light, this time around Jess. It lit the lean planes of his face and intensified the brightness of his blue eyes. Just for a second, with his hair tousled over his forehead by the hug and that little half-smile – the one which always tugged at Slim's heart - quirking the corner of his mouth, he looked absurdly young. He _was_ younger, of course, although this was often overshadowed by a maturity and resilience which came through experiencing harsh reality too soon.

 _How much younger?_ It suddenly hit Slim like a sledgehammer that Jess was much the same age Nathaniel would have been. And like 'Nathaniel', 'Jesse' was also a gift.

They completed the final check in silence, working together with the instinctive co-operation of those who know each other extremely well. It was not long before they were back at the porch and pausing to take a last look around at the quiet yard and the deep night sky before going inside.

"Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I … give you something?"

Jess turned to look at Slim and his eyes gleamed again as he nodded silently.

Slim held out his carving.

Jess opened his hand. The wooden cat lay on his palm.

A gift, given and received.

Jess looked carefully at the little carving. He ran a finger very gently over the marks of the knife. He smiled that crooked smile again. "Guess you took a long while makin' this."

"I did. And an even longer while to find it the right home. Come on, let's go in."

Slim put his arm around Jess's shoulders as they exchanged grins of quiet happiness. They went in to the living room and Slim sat down at his desk again. Jess leaned over him to look at the work and complained mischievously: "Ain't you finished the addin' up yet? Looks like y' prefer workin' to relaxin'!"

"Just a couple more to do." Slim saw that the carved, stone box remained on top of the pile of papers. The lid was still up. It was empty.

Slim was about to move it, but Jess beat him to it.

He picked the box up and regarded it thoughtfully. "I sure prefer carved animals to this thing!" he said as he tucked the little cat safely into his shirt pocket. "But I'll relieve you of the weight."

"I wouldn't want you to take too much trouble over my burdens," Slim told him, half-teasing, half-serious.

Jess thumped him companionably on the arm and Slim could have sworn he heard his partner reply, almost under his breath, as he took the box out on to the porch: "That's what brothers do."

.

* * *

.

Notes:

Names and their meanings:

Andrew (Greek) - Matthew 4:18 - a strong man.

Issachar (Hebrew) - Genesis 30:18 - reward; recompense.

Jesse (Hebrew) - 1 Samuel 16:1 - gift; oblation; one who is.

Nathanael (Hebrew) - John 1:45 - the gift of God.


	6. Chapter 6

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.

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 **6**

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" _And will you never return to see_

 _your bruised and beaten sons?"_

 _"Oh, I would, I would, if welcome I were_

 _for they loathe me, every one."_

 _._

The box sat on the hitching rail.

Jess regarded it for several minutes with total concentration. He had no qualms about replacing it in its original position. It might be tempting to imagine the slightest jar, an extra strong puff of wind, a careless move, would result in the shattering of so much beauty. Jess, on the contrary, had the feeling you could take a sledgehammer to all that exquisite craftsmanship and not put the merest dent in it. The box was very skillfully and cunningly made to endure.

' _Cunning' being the most important word_! he told himself firmly.

 _Who had made it?_

 _And more important – why?_ Jess would very much like an answer to that question. _Why would anyone go to the trouble of carving in such minute detail the expressions of human passions, fears and dreams? Carving faces so life-like_ _it made you feel as if you could hear their voices, share their thoughts – or maybe they could share yours? Why go to such incredible detail on the outside of the box? A box which seemed rich in possibilities but was actually empty?_

Jess sat down in his favorite position on the steps. He ignored the box and began quietly to count the stars. He always found it a very soothing process when he was struggling with emotions or ideas or just seeking quiet after events which had demanded everything from him. The silver starlight bathed his spirit. His hand went unconsciously to the pocket of his shirt and his fingers caressed the little wooden cat, clearly so painstakingly made by a very much younger Slim. Jess sat silent and still for a long time as he had been taught when he too had been very young.

It was as if the box represented a force opposite to and actively opposing this hard-won tranquility. Despite knowing it was empty, he was being driven by a strong urge to open it anyway. The compulsion had started the moment he picked it up and felt how heavy it was in his hands. But he had put it down again without opening it, rejecting the idea that there must be something inside which was making it so weighty.

 _So why was this happening? Why the provocation to open the box?_

Jess thought back to that encounter with his partner in the barn. To the expression of fear and desperation and utter horror on Slim's face the instant Jess had appeared through the hatch. To the lamplight glittering on the remnant of Slim's tears. To his own reflection in them. He was quite sure the box had something to do with Slim's reaction. He had been sitting at his desk and the box had been there in front of him. Then he had left for the barn. Whatever had happened in the loft, it was powerful beyond any rational expectation or explanation. For very little made Slim Sherman afraid without good reason and he did not naturally act out of desperation or for any other rash motive. Jess allowed himself a wry grin at this point. Of the two of them, he was without doubt the more reckless.

 _It would be reckless to open the box. He knew that. But he was never one to turn down a challenge!_

He stood up and took the box.

He raised the lid.

There were two objects inside.

Jess regarded them with the same concentration which he had accorded the box itself. Anyone facing him in a gunfight would have seen the same expression, the same core of stillness, the same power poised in every muscle, ready to unleash. His physical reaction might have been occasioned by the two objects in the box.

A belt buckle and a bullet.

The buckle was unusual: the twisted metal formed the initials _HZH._

The bullet was unusual.

Clearly engraved on it were more initials.

 _JH_

Jess gave a mirthless chuckle. _Bullets with his name on them had been coming his way since he was thirteen. The buckle was something else._

Always, he'd wondered at the back of his mind what had happened to it and if the wearer could possibly be - . The buckle seemed to grow in his hand until it almost filled his vision **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

He was standing in a line with his elder brothers. The hard-packed dirt of the barn was cool as marble under his bare feet. Daniel was next to him, ready to rescue him as always. And while Dan had been away with the People, it was their cousin, Callum, who somehow instinctively knew when Jesse needed getting out of scrapes or comforting for the consequences. Next to Dan in the line was Thomas, a twin by name, by loyalty and almost by birth. Beyond him, Matthew, radiating concern as he habitually did for he was the compassionate one of the family.

At five years old, Jesse Guerra Harper's eyes were more or less level with the buckle of his father's belt. The initials _HZH_ glinted as the man's stomach muscles sucked in an angry breath. The storm brewed from disobedience was about to break over all their heads.

Jesse took a step forward and asserted fiercely: "They ain't to blame, padre! They didn't know." **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

Zak Harper was not a gentle man. He was demanding and impatient and quick to anger and he expected obedience from men and children. He had grown up in one of the hardest schools of all. Right now he was remembering himself at five years old. Remembering being surrounded by tall fighters, their knives and hands still red with the blood of massacre. Remembering how the handle of the knife he had grabbed had bitten into the palm of his own hand.

The defiance of his indomitable spirit had saved him that day. Courage and the willingness to face insuperable odds were something the People valued. When he had stamped his foot, yelling a shrill challenge at them, he had become an asset. They had taken him and raised him as their own.

He heaved an angry sigh. Not for nothing was his middle son known to everyone on the ranch as 'pequino terco', for the same spirit of defiance was alive in him. Zak knew perfectly well why the boy had sneaked out of the house and ridden his pony bareback after the night-patrol they had taken to mounting against rustlers. _Hell, he'd have done the same!_ Nonetheless, Jesse's action could have jeopardized the whole patrol. Plus it had certainly wasted man-power when someone had to escort him back and make sure he stayed at home.

 _Jesse had a lesson to learn! And the others should have known better. Hell! He should have known better himself. After all, it was just the kind of thing he would have done._

Now the boy refused to let anyone else share the blame. _Just like he, as leader, always did **…**_

 **… _..._**

 **…**

At seven, Jesse had grown a bit above the level of the belt-buckle. But it was always thing he focused his eyes on when he was in trouble. He knew if he met his father's eyes, the fire of both their spirits would burst into a destructive blaze. He didn't want that to happen, even though he was always pushing the boundaries of his father's authority over him.

Standing as still as he knew how, Jesse was conscious of the calm emanating from his brothers. They were always there, but in each of them, as they had returned from learning other skills and another way of life, he sensed something more, something of the indomitable endurance of the man running his fierce gaze over their faces.

Jesse's face hurt. His jaw was bruised and scrapped and he hurt all down one side where he had been flung against the fence and yelled at to climb it. The whole of his body still felt the impact, but his mind dismissed all the pain. It was the indignity and injustice which he resented.

The herd of mustangs they had rounded up had been penned in the holding paddock for some time and Jesse had spent every waking minute that he could just being with them. He was drawn by their wild beauty, which called to his own. The horses had begun to accept his constant presence at the gate and the low, soothing words he had uttered almost continuously. Once he was sure they were at ease with him, he gently insinuated himself inside, standing utterly still by the gate, again waiting patiently until they took no notice of him at all. Presently some of the youngsters were even curious enough to take a step or two towards him. Jesse made no move towards them, just kept up a stream of encouraging noises. At last had come the time when his mixture of gentleness and determination paid off. He was able to step slowly, peacefully, through the herd, murmuring a stream of soothing reassurance as he did so. Such was the acceptance of the animals by now that he could brush against them with the lightest of caresses. The stallion had kept a wary eye all the time on the intruder into his domain. But he was sufficiently responsive to the gift of the young human, moving without fear amongst them, that it seemed he might even allow the boy the unimaginable liberty of laying a hand on him, lord of the herd and father of much of it.

Now Jesse had to face his own father and accountability at his hands. He knew his jaw would not be the only thing which was aching **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

Zak clenched his jaw, biting back the angry words which he wanted to let loose.

 _The_ _boy had been told in no uncertain terms to leave the unbroken horses to the adult experts. He_ _had a gift - there was no doubt about it! But his extraordinary use of it was in direct defiance of the experience and knowledge of those around him._

Ordinarily, if his middle son had been one of the older hands, Zak would have given him free rein to work with the horses and use his skill to the advantage of the spread.

 _But you can't have a seven year old showing up grown men! Not if he's your own son. Especially if he is a reckless, defiant, totally independent son! And one with the instinct of the People for concealment, so that no-one had notice his quiet absences while he was infiltrating the herd._

When they had found Jesse in the middle of the herd, everyone else had reacted instantly, horror and fear driving them to rescue the boy before they had actually assessed the situation. The horse wrangler and another cowboy had tossed ropes over the stallion's neck, immobilising him, and other hands had rushed in to pull the boy from the horse's proximity and shove him over the fence to safety. In the resulting melee, when the whole herd had exploded into their natural wildness, fortunately only a couple of men had received minor injuries from the spooked horses.

 _The boy had had the herd calm when he'd been on his own._ Zak appreciated that. But he could not overlook the injuries and the disruption which were a direct result of his son's actions.

 _Sometimes the only thing which drove home th_ e _responsibility to_ a _void causing injury and pain to others was to experience it for yourself._

Zak reluctantly set his hand to the buckle of his belt **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

At nine, Jesse's eyes were well above the belt buckle and he had come to see the world with different eyes too. The experience he had gained in the last two years had taught him the significance of the initials on the buckle. The last two were easy enough, deriving as they did from his father's European lineage: Zakariah Harper. The first H came from his real name, the name he had borne in the only family and world that he had known in his formative years: Hashkedasila, 'warrior'.

This was the reason Zak exiled each of his sons to live with the People for two years and to learn something of the values and skills with which he himself had grown up. Jesse understood infinitely more about his father than he had before this experience. It had been the hardest time in his hard young life, for his own capability was nothing compared with the proficiency, endurance and self-discipline mastered by children far younger than himself. Fear, pain, loneliness, exhaustion, hunger, sleeplessness – he had learnt to withstand them all. Inside him now was a still fortress to which his spirit could retreat, enabling him to bear much which seemed impossible otherwise. He had acquired the skills of stealth and surprise. He had come to understand why the People valued tricking the enemy above killing them. He had been trained to fight in the way which had made the People feared and respected by their many enemies.

But he was in trouble again and no trickery or fighting were going to get him out of it. In fact it was fighting which had given them all away! Jesse kept the one eye through which he could still see firmly fixed on the belt buckle. This time it was Dan, Cal and Tom in line with him. Matt had left them over two years ago to find an education and training which did not involve fighting but, instead, healing. The other three would have done their best to divert some of Zak's wrath from Jesse, he knew that, but frankly none of them were in a state to do anything much except nurse sore heads, even before taking the punishment they had earned **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

For once, Zak was ruing his education scheme. It would be perfectly possible and, in some respects, even justified to beat the living daylights out of all four of them. But Cal was the only one who would really suffer and Zak suspected his nephew's voice had also been the only one advocating any kind of reason or common sense in this latest escapade of Jesse's.

Not that he blamed his most rebellious son for skipping his lessons with Father Paul. Jesse had duly delivered Johnny safely to the little chapel the priest had built with his own hands, knowing the youngster would be picked up later in the day by someone else. Zak didn't even blame the boy for then riding off to the nearest settlement in order to ride in a rodeo race which was taking place that day.

And he certainly didn't blame Jesse for winning! It was what happened after this victory, a victory which was naturally resented by those older and more experienced than a cocky kid on a half-wild mustang.

Dan had somehow got wind of Jesse's intentions and hared off after him, presumably bent on getting him home safely. Tom was never very far from his 'twin' and followed Dan. And Cal just seemed to appear like some kind of guardian angel whenever Jesse was in trouble.

Jesse had been in big trouble this time, which was only held at bay by the presence of his elders. As far as Zak could make out, the three young men, having made it clear that the kid was under their protection, had then decided to have a drink to celebrate Jesse's victory and consolidate their point. One drink led to another. And another led to some unwise boasting. Which led to a free-for-all fight in which it had to be admitted that the three Harpers distinguished themselves by trouncing their opponents soundly. Which lead to another drink. Somewhere in the fracas, Jesse had acquired a black eye, some hand-to-hand fighting practice and his first taste of whiskey.

Zak was all too aware of the evil damage alcohol had done to the dignity of proud indigenous tribes. He did not intend that his family should step along such a path and he would do whatever he had to in order to drive this lesson home **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

By the time he was thirteen, Jesse had been standing alongside his father rather more often than he faced his retribution and had had less need to fix his eyes on that belt buckle. It was nonetheless an explosive partnership, for their wills and spirits were too alike to live quietly in the same space. They struck sparks off each other and too often these led to a trail of gunpowder leaking from a keg of conflict. The boy would push the limits of defiant independence as far and as often as he could. The father would hold fast on the brink of utterly destructive anger because so often he felt he was looking at himself. Each acknowledged in the other many skills and passions which they shared as deeply as their blood. And shared blood, the love of kin, was stronger than any other force acting in them, a love surmounting even their need for and enjoyment of a powerful fight.

Jesse was the eldest son now. The other three were long gone on lives and trails of their own. He took his responsibilities seriously, even if too frequently he made up his own mind about how to carry them out.

It was like that at the end. The night of fire and fighting. Jesse woke just like everyone else, roused by the sudden roar of flames, the stench of burning and the startled cries of those taken unaware by the attack. From the window he could see the main barn was ablaze. That alone was a catastrophe. But men running to fight the flames were cut down instantly, caught in the light while some enemy in the pitch blackness picked them off with ruthless efficiency. Frantically he pulled on his pants, not stopping for anything else, not even his boots. Another lightning glance showed other outbuildings afire. More people fell. The yard seemed to be full of bodies, not one of them moving. He hurled himself through the living room, grabbing a rifle and ammunition from the rack as he went. Without even thinking, he ran from the house, dived and rolled instinctively. Being smaller than the adults he was able to find shelter behind an upright of the corral. Providentially, he was not hit.

Against the flame-light of the burning buildings, he saw momentarily the familiar lean, dark figure - reckless, undaunted, risking himself willingly to defend everyone else. But Zak was too experienced a fighter to make such a target of himself and Jesse saw him retreat to the other side of the corral, where the protection of the fence afforded him a better chance. But he was the only fighter, outnumbered, surrounded by those who had plotted this destruction. There was no way Jesse was going to let him stand alone. He wormed his way along the ground, using every inch of cover, as his training in covert warfare had taught him, until he was as close as he could get to the lone defiant warrior.

Sighting on the flashes of the enemies' guns, Jesse began to try to stem the hail of destruction by picking off individuals. It seemed so little, yet every man disabled meant one less bullet with the initials HZH on it! The owner of the initials registered Jesse's presence at once. There was no time to pause in his own rapid fire to acknowledge Jesse's accurate shooting or the intelligence of his defensive tactics. Besides, the situation was deteriorating every second.

Zak's last command to his son was simple: "Take the others and run!"

But Jesse would not run. It was his business, his right to take action, to defend the family and the home. Pride and love and the harsh reality he had been schooled in would not let him give in and, still worse, leave his father to stand alone. So he poured out shots until he ran out of ammunition.

As Jesse's rifle fell silent, Zak finally turned towards him. In the firelight his eyes, the impossibly blue eyes he shared with all his sons, looked with equal pride and love on this warrior he had raised. But he also intended to be obeyed. He shifted slightly, so that his voice would carry across the roar of the flames and the hideous triumphant yelling of the attackers, and repeated his order: "Take them! Run!"

The belt buckle caught the light of the fires as he moved, flashing with a brilliance which fatally revealed the position of the wearer. At least three shots rang out simultaneously.

Jesse saw his father crumple into the dust. Smoke roiled across the yard in a billowing cloud covering the body from sight. He knew he had no option now. He turned and ran, still clutching his empty rifle.

He was too late. The house was on fire. His mother lay in a pool of blood on the doorstep. The house burned like the fires of hell.

He was guilty. He had defied his father for the last time. Others had paid the price. The little ones had been too weak to escape.

Francie and Johnny he found huddled between the hen coops at the back of the house. They were still small enough, even the fifteen year old girl, to slide into spaces no adult would try. Besides, Johnny and Jesse had both been taught stealth by experts. They squirmed and slithered and crawled and crouched until they were far from the blazing ranch and well out on the range. Then there was nothing left for the three to do but to run, to hide, to leave the looters to their harvest of their cruelty.

Without horses or supplies, barefoot and barely clothed, their chances were slender in the extreme. If they had not been taught how to live off the land, how to endure hunger and thirst, how to keep on walking when body and mind desired only oblivion, they would not have survived. Yet at length, by the same providence which had saved Jesse from being shot as he ran from the house, they came across a foraging party and, thus protected, knew they would reach their foster family in the end.

Once that end to their journey was achieved and he was sure his siblings were safe in the keeping of the People, Jesse set his face to the north and to revenge **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

The screams of the dying, caught by or thrown into the flames were mercifully drowned by the roar of the fire itself. It thundered in his head like a great flood sweeping him away to the afterlife. And it must be heading for heaven, because all hell was here on earth. But he would not be torn away from this earth which he had revered all his life nor from the ones for whom he must exact the price of blood.

 _He would not burn!_ Despite his wounded body being seized and flung into the nearest pyre, he would not burn!

Somehow Zak rolled away. Not a second too soon, for across the place where he had lain the great timbers of the barn roof crashed down like blazing hammers. He rolled again. Lurid light flickered all around but no-one saw him. He rolled into a dark shadow cast by something not far off the ground. There was just space for a man's body under it. And there was blessed relief. The ground was wet. Mud coated his charred clothing and little puddles of water partially quenched the fury of his burns. He lay there blessing the little ones who had been playing in the water trough. They been duly chastised for creating a muddy swamp all around it.

 _The little 'uns … little … innocent … and the older ones … lost too … or if living, loathing him for his failure to protect them!_

When he woke again, there was darkness and a quiet only broken by the crack of cooling timbers. The stench of burnt flesh and wood was heavy on the air. He retched, feeling the agony of his damaged body trying to strike at his mind. He summoned every ounce of his stubborn willpower and endurance to obliterate the pain before it destroyed his ability to move.

 _He was going to move!_

Very slowly he raised himself by pressing his back against the side of the trough and edging up sheerly using the strength of his one good leg, until he could turn and duck his head into the blessed water. Could trail his shattered arm through it. Could somehow splash cooling liquid over most of his burns with the only hand which would work. But he could not attend to his wounded leg. Not with only one hand to hold him up.

 _He was never going to walk. Very well then, he would crawl!_

That was how they found him. Crawling along the trail west. Dragging himself inch by agonizing inch. Clawing his way forward by the strength of a single hand and arm. His passage was marked by his blood soaking into earth of the mighty plain which had once been his care and his delight.

It was well that they found him when they did. The Friends had turned aside from their direct route when they saw the smoke. It was a bold move, since smoke almost inevitably meant destruction and danger. But they were peaceable folk, committed to caring, who took to their hearts the blackened, shattered stranger. They were certainly friends to Zak Harper. They did not know who he was and he never told them. They called him 'Shadrach', because he had so obviously passed through the flames. They treated his wounds with oil and wine and lifted him gently into their own wagon. Finding no-one else left alive, they passed on their way, carrying him far beyond the knowledge of his neighbors, who gathered not long after in shocked concern to bury what remained of the dead in the ruins of the ranch.

For days he lay in the Friends' wagon, delirious but suffering untold agony in silence. He never spoke of what had happened and what he had lost or of the fate which had almost certainly befallen all his children. When he regained complete consciousness, he hardly spoke at all, except to render thanks; a mere nod greeted the news that no living soul had been found in the burnt out ranch.

It took him months, lengthening into years in the Friends' settlement, to regain some semblance of health. The war came and went almost unnoticed; he could not have fought in it. His body was covered with scar tissue from the burns. His right arm was shattered beyond repair and he would walk with a limp for the rest of his life, but the bullet intended for his brain had only cost him the sight of one eye. He had enough to be getting on with. He was alive: alive thanks to his gradual healing under those peaceful hands. There was no way he could repay the Friends for the nursing and nourishment he had received.

So it was, when he knew he must acquire a gun and teach himself to use it with his left hand, he moved on. He could not violate the code of the Friends or expect them to tolerate him doing so. Nor could he return to the People, who could ill afford to support a cripple.

He began his wanderings. Began to piece together the pattern of the burnings. Not just his ranch, but others. And every one marked by a gratuitous violence beyond any necessity of robbing. He came closer and closer on the heels of those he sought until he was frequenting the same saloons, in the same towns, where his scarred and silent figure drove fear into the heart by its mere presence. He built up a reputation for ruthless fighting; the kind such men would recognize and respect, as far as they were capable of respecting anything.

Eventually he was able to put a name to every member of the Bannister family and their gang. But he held his vengeance in check with exemplary patience. He wanted just and inescapable retribution on all of them, but he did not know how to gain it.

It was then that he met the Marshall **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

Jesse left the People. He found a gun, stole a horse, rode away. He followed the trail of the murderers, however cold it became. It was ironic that burning heat betrayed their passage, although the ashes he found might be chill. He was always hunting, never forgetting, following the trail even when it lead him into some bad places. In some ways, the war saved his soul. It cut short his private vengeance and gave him some sense of proportion. Better still, it reconnected him with the love he had once known in the person of his beloved cousin, Cal. Jesse learnt how strange and close the tie was between the two of them: he had the assurance that Cal would always know of his need in extremity.

But even Cal's love and support could not wholly remove the debt of guilt which burdened his soul. When the war was over, Jesse went his own way again, still reckless, still determined, still angry. The stubborn persistence of a child was transmuted into adult and unbreakable resolve. Young Jesse became simply Jess. He learnt to be a fast gun and to capitalize on the connections which such a reputation gave him. It enabled him to confront and kill the first of the Bannisters' gang he caught up with. Later he was part of the posse which arrested and put another two in jail. Jess was close enough on their heels for them to feel his breath and he had no doubt that Frank Bannister, at least, knew enough to recognize the vengeance in his eyes. But, after the arrests, the Bannister brothers themselves escaped, their gang split up, crossed the border, hid themselves, rode beyond reach maybe. He was alone. Without a family. Without a place to belong to. Then he began to learn what really matters when you have a burden to carry.

It was the burden and the loneliness which finally led to his meeting with the Marshall.

Or, to be more accurate, it was his acutely drunken state of guilt and loneliness which landed him in the Marshall's cell. What led the man to question him about the reasons for the drunken altercation he had provoked, Jess never knew. Perhaps it was that the Marshall saw a son of his own in the troubled young man who was so resolute and yet so filled with pain.

Having sobered Jess up, the Marshall proceeded to extract from his unwilling lips the story of his encounter with the Bannisters and his subsequent pursuit of them. There was a little silence after he had obtained all the facts from the young Texan. Though he did not say so, the Marshall was impressed by the sheer physical endurance and stubborn adherence to his aim, despite almost impossible odds, which Jess's story revealed. Not to mention the fact that he had disposed of three members of the gang already.

After due consideration, the Marshall made an offer. "I've been after the Bannisters a long time. I'm near to a showdown with the whole lot of them. You want to join me?"

Jesse's intense expression left no doubt about his answer. He nodded, but demanded: "How come y' so certain?"

"I've had luck," the Marshall admitted. "Came across a man who's riding with them, but not because he's one of them. He figured it was the only way to get the information needed to take them down. He's told me where they're holed up and how best to corner them."

"Why?" Jess demanded suspiciously.

"I guess he has his reasons," the Marshall told him. "His name's Shadrach and he sure has passed through the fire."

Jess nodded again, accepting the information at once because he knew how many had suffered at the hands of these cruel and evil men. Given their sadistic glee in leaving no survivors, someone must have been watching over this particular man.

"I'm with you. When do we start?"

They started a little before dawn the next day. A surprisingly short but devious ride brought them into a narrow valley, which one man could defend against many. But he could only do that if his presence was not known. As it was, he was swiftly removed before he could hold the pass or give the alarm. Presently they rode on into the deserted settlement which the Bannisters had made their hideout. It was tempting to fire to the whole place and burn the evil-doers in their sleep as they had done to others, but the Marshall would not allow such wholesale destruction. However appropriate the action might seem, it would be unjust, cowardly and put them on a level with those they sought to bring to justice. They must employ the fear of conflagration rather than the thing itself. Besides, as he told Jess, he had a responsibility for the life of the innocent Shadrach.

 _And innocence_ , Jess knew from agonizing experience, _is no protection at all_.

At the hideout, more alert guards signaled the approach of the posse. Frank Bannister was no coward and no fool. No-one could have got into the valley unless the guard had been taken out. If the guard had been taken out, someone had given his position away. He had a traitor in his midst. None of this, however, showed in his casual, controlled demeanor. The posse was not large. They could hold out indefinitely. Later, he would deal with the traitor.

Smoke and flames from the rear of the building soon changed his mind. It is one thing to enjoy the spectacle of a conflagration and the screams of those caught in it. It is quite another to be caught yourself. Frank knew only too well how swiftly a small fire set in the right place could devastate a building.

"Get ready t' quit!" he snarled. "Keep low and crawl if y' have to. There ain't many of'm but we've gotta get to the horses. You, Shadrach – take the lead!"

"Thought leadin' was your job, Frank!"

"Do as I say! We'll be right behind y'. If we keep down, we'll be fine!"

And they would have been fine, had it not been for the presence of a certain young Texan in the posse. Shadrach had barely passed through the door, when he heard a curse behind him and a command before.

The command was for the posse to hold fire. Then came the order to the besieged outlaws: "Surrender! Throw down your guns now!"

The curse came from Frank Bannister. "It's that same youngster! The little Texan bloodhound who's bin trailin' us all along! The same one who got Bill and Sandy and Mack. Now I'll get him!"

In the very instant, Zak Harper looked across the divide between lawlessness and justice. He saw a mirror image to himself. There was no mistaking the braced stance, ready for action like a mountain cat waiting to strike - the angle of the lean jaw, lifted defiantly against all odds – the broad shoulders flung back – the line of the sinewy body, vibrating with a power which belied its lack of inches. It was his son, long dead, but now alive again.

Faster than thought, Zak flung himself between that son and Frank Bannister's bullet.

The next few minutes were unadulterated confusion and mayhem. Once again, Providence seemed to cast a protective arm around Jess. He fired off a series of rapid, devastatingly accurate shots. At the same time he ran towards the man who had saved him.

He dropped to his knees in the dust and lifted the shattered body which had taken the bullet with someone else's initials on it. He had intended to express his gratitude to a stranger. The words never left his lips, for he was once more silent and still in the face of intolerable anguish as he cradled the one who had fathered him.

Zak reared up in his arms, indomitable and undaunted even in the face of death. His fierce gaze ran over the battlefield with satisfaction.

"It is over. Finished."

All around them the Bannisters were dead, dying or overpowered.

"'Vengeance is mine, says the Lord: I will repay.'" Above them, the Marshall's voice spoke somberly. "We are but instruments who have brought them to the retribution they deserve!"

It was doubtful whether either of the Harpers heard him. Jess simply whispered: "Padre!" And then, "Y' tricked them like a true fighter, Hashkedasila!"

Blue eyes met blue as Zak gazed at the other half of his soul. "Do not loathe me, pequino terco … I would not force you to run … if there was any other way …"

"The others are safe," Jess assured him.

A little smile lifted Zak's twisted lips. "My beloved son …"

Jess bent low over his dying father and heard his own name on the last breath of life: "You please me … very much … Jesse … Je-ess!" **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

"Jess! Jess! Help!" The young voice summoning him was half choked, but only with laughter.

Mike, in his nightshirt, shot out of the front door and raced across the yard towards where Jess was kneeling by the barn door. Slim followed him in hot pursuit, sweeping up the youngster before he could escape.

"Bed, Mike, you little varmint!" Slim panted, half laughing, half serious.

"Je – e – ss!" Mike was struggling in his guardian's arms. He let out a yell of delighted laughter as Jess leapt to his feet and grabbed him.

"An' you're always tellin' me not to get him worked up before bedtime?" Jess accused Slim as he swung Mike in a dizzying circle. "Catch!"

He tossed Mike towards his partner, knowing there was no way Slim would let the boy fall. When Slim caught Mike once more in a firm embrace, they all stood panting and heaving with laughter.

"All your fault," Slim told Jess firmly. "If you hadn't been out here, he'd never have had the idea of quitting the house."

"You wanna bet?" Jess asked skeptically. He and Mike were also of a like mind about bedtimes.

"Not with you!" Slim had lost often enough to be cautious. Instead he eyed his partner curiously. "What were you doing out here anyway, kneeling in the yard?"

Jess hesitated for a moment, looking at him with a deep, penetrating gaze. "I came out here to find something I'd lost."

He turned back to where he had been kneeling and scooped up the belt buckle. He offered his other hand to Mike and the three of them walked back to the house, Slim and Jess swinging Mike between them as they went.

On the porch, Jess paused to close the lid of the empty box. His other hand clenched so tight around the buckle that the initials HZH were imprinted on his palm. Then he went inside to join his family.

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* * *

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Notes:

Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego are figures from chapter 3 of the Book of Daniel, three Hebrew men thrown into a fiery furnace by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, when they refuse to bow down to the king's image; the three are preserved from harm and the king sees four men walking in the flames, "the fourth ... like a son of God".

The life-story of Zak Harper is loosely based on the Apache, in particular the predominance of family groups rather than overarching tribal customs. This story presupposes that a clan might be willing to behave in a way not common to others of their race. Language has been researched to the best of my ability.


	7. Chapter 7

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 **7**

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 _Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears,_

 _Into life's calm the wind of sorrow came,_

 _And fanned the fire of love to clearest flame._

 _._

The box sat on the hitching rail.

Mike eased open the front door, grateful that Jess had recently oiled the latch and it made no sound. The house behind him was still and secure, as if floating on the soft breathing of the sleepers within. Most of his nights now Mike would sleep just as soundly, only occasionally plagued by the nightmares of grief. But tonight he was restless. He simply could not settle down and drop off into the deep, refreshing slumber which his energetic and happy young life usually brought him.

 _Slim'd blame Jess for that!_ Because, as so often happened, Mike had cajoled Jess into telling more than one of the thrilling yarns stored in his guardian's memory. Andy enjoyed the stories too and, despite asserting his right to a later bedtime than his new little brother, nonetheless sneaked in to hear them.

But it was not the fun of the chase round the yard nor the exciting action of the stories which kept Mike awake. And he was not scared nor hungry nor afraid. He was not even kept awake by his own vivid imagination.

 _Something was calling to him!_

So he slipped from bed, dragging on his pants and, in the living room, reaching down his jacket from the pegs by the door. Now he was standing on the porch under the cool light of the stars, looking at the box on the rail.

It was beautiful. Mike could hardly imagine the skill and care with which it had been carved. The little faces were real. You could hear their voices, share their thoughts …

 _Who had made it?_

 _Why would they make something so powerfully attractive and then bury it in the bank of a stream half way up a mountain in Wyoming? Why had they left it there for him to find?_

He reached out and took the box.

It was surprisingly heavy in his hands. Mike hadn't notice this while it was in his pocket or even when he first opened it and found it empty. It seemed to have increased in weight, as if it was responsive to being in the presence of humans, to being on the ranch. But even a child knew it was totally unreasonable so small a container could weigh so much.

 _Not if it was empty._

 _So it must contain something. It must, even if his eyes had already seen that it did not!_

He raised the lid.

There were two objects inside.

Mike stared for a long moment. He had never seen anything so perfect. Lying glinting in the box were two golden leaves. At first he thought it was the starlight which made them twinkle and glitter, but then he realized that they shone with a light of their own. Although they were leaves, they were leaves shaped like the stars themselves – pure, fragile, heart-stopping beauty.

Hardly daring, but irresistibly compelled, Mike reached into the box and took the two leaf-stars, one in each hand **…**

 **…...**

 **…**

He was running through the woods in the Fall. Golden leaves rose up in clouds about his feet. More showered down upon him as gusts of wind ruffled the branches. It was like being in a world of flying gold, warm and exuberant and infinitely precious.

Mike was laughing as he ran. Kicking up fountains of leaves or fixing on a single leaf spiraling down towards him, chasing it and trying to catch it before it touched the ground.

The light of the sun streamed through the trees, gilding the trunks and making sparks of light flash from the shiny surfaces of the falling leaves. Above him was the golden ceiling of the branches. Below him the golden floor of the forest. Nothing could be richer or freer or more beautiful.

Mike was intoxicated with the sheer ecstasy of the season and of this moment when he was free just to revel in it. Free from the endless swaying and jolting of the wagon. Free from the slow place of the patient oxen. Free from obedience to the demands of the trail and the strictures of the adults.

His ma and pa were not being strict today. Today, for the first time since they had turned north, away from the track of the rest of the wagon train, his parents were taking a rest day. Travelling on their own was a dangerous thing and the two families who had come north with them had soon decided to put down roots along the way. Mike's pa was still determined to press on to Wyoming. Since parting company with the other settlers, he had had to work even harder and be much more vigilant as he protected the safety of his little family and guided them to their future.

But today they had made camp in the golden woods. Today Mike was playing. And today his ma ran through the leaves too, her skirts and hair flying wildly as she chased with her son. And today his pa gathered armfuls of the crisp golden bounty and showered them both with cascading glory as they ran. At last they had all collapsed, breathless and laughing, in a deep drift of leaves, where they lay reveling in the warm sunshine, very glad that the wind had dropped for the moment.

Presently his ma got up and brushed the leaves from her hair, which were almost invisible against the deep golden strands. She ran lightly back to the wagon, lit the little camp fire and began to prepare their midday meal. Presently his pa jumped to his feet, shook his shoulders free from the foliage, whistled to their hound and picked up the bucket to fetch more fresh water from the stream.

But Mike lay gazing up at the golden ceiling and the twinkling sunlight leaking through the canopy above him. The wood was so still. So completely peaceful. Only the faintest sounds of human movement came to him. The click of the spoon against the saucepan. The clink of the handle of the bucket going into the stream. No footfalls or voices broke the serenity. He could have lain there for ever. It was heaven.

He lay there so long and the silence was so deep, so profound, that he was almost relieved when the wind got up again. He heard it come from the distance, a faint moan in the canopy, which deepened to a lament as it approached. He felt it gather power, like invisible knives raking fiercely through the tops of the trees.

Suddenly Mike was filled with an inexplicable sadness. It was as if the joy and beauty of the day had been erased. As if the golden wonder had been covered by veil of darkness and the sun no longer shone.

He too jumped to his feet. He could see his ma and pa in the distance. They stood in the light of the golden world, holding out their hands to him. And in their hands were two radiant stars.

Mike ran. He ran like one possessed. Like one who knows what hunts at this heels. The wind was drawing its curtain of darkness over him. He had only a very little time to reach his parents before the light would go out forever and between him and them would be a deep gulf of darkness.

Hot salt tears burned down his face. He ran and ran and ran. But the darkness was too strong. Its power was like a barrier into which he ran full tilt **…**

 **…...**

 **…** Mike thudded into a warm, hard body. Steadfast arms went round him and his desperate flight found refuge in an unfailing source of strength. His face burrowed into the soft warm material covering a chest which was lean and hard-packed with muscle. He inhaled a familiar scent – he could never decide whether it was bread or hay or just something altogether wholesome, tinged with faint traces of tobacco, leather and sweat. The darkness threatening to devour him was suddenly driven back by a clear flame of unconditional love.

Jess caught and held the youngster as Mike fled blindly across the yard. The primordial power of darkness, fear and despair seemed literally to loom over them both. But Jess would not surrender to it or let it tear Mike away from the security of his new family. He held on tight, using every strength he had ever been taught or learned from experience to surround them both with trust and love and utter loyalty.

The black threat loomed over the yard. Over the house. Over all that they both held precious.

In the next instant, it was gone.

Mike burrowed even closer into Jess's arms and his muffled voice sobbed out: "I lost them, Jess! I couldn't save their stars. The darkness got them!"

"Darkness never puts out the stars, Mike," Jess's familiar growly voice assured him. "Look. See there?"

He turned them both towards the distant horizon. A crescent moon was just rising with the Evening Star in the curve of its arms. Intuitively, Jess assured the little boy, "I guess your pa was big enough and his arms wide enough to be like the moon. And that's the Mother Star inside them. You know she's always there."

Mike heaved a great sigh.

Jess picked him up and carried him over to the barn. Mike clung to him like a limpet, obviously still not entirely sure that he was safe. With some difficulty, Jess struck a match one handed and lit the lantern. The soft warm light did much to reassure Mike, but he was shivering with cold from the night air and the shock of his vision. Jess carried him over to Traveller's stall.

"Down, Trav!"

The bay obligingly folded himself into the straw of his stall. Jess propped Mike up against the horse's warm, solid back, after which he fetched the bedrolls attached to his and Slim's saddles. He wrapped Mike up gently but firmly in a couple of blankets and ran a hand over his disheveled hair.

"Sleep now, Bear Cub. Ain't nothing gonna get past Trav and me."

"But the box?"

"Will be fine where it is. We'll take care of it come morning. Sleep now."

Mike fell almost instantly into a deep and surprisingly dreamless sleep. When he awoke in the faint light of dawn it was because Jess had begun to stir, unwinding himself determinedly from the blankets covering them both. He rose to his feet and stood looking down at Mike. The expression on his face was deeply serious, as if he was faced with a vital but dangerous task. Mike knew that Jess considered him an equal partner in whatever this task was. They had to do it together.

"Come on, pard'ner. Let's put this thing to rest once and for all."

Jess held out his hand and pulled Mike to his feet. He bridled Traveller, but didn't bother with the saddle. He lifted Mike, still swathed in a blanket, onto the bay's back. Then he led his mount out of the barn.

The box was still sitting in the middle of the yard. The lid was still up. It was still empty.

Jess reached into the pocket of his pants to locate his gloves. He pulled them on. He shut the lid of the box and picked it up. After a moment's thought, he ripped a strip off the bottom of Mike's nightshirt and wrapped the box in it.

"I guess you should carry this." Jess held out the wrapped box. Mike took it gingerly.

Nothing happened.

Jess vaulted up behind him and urged the bay out onto the trail they had followed yesterday. They moved at a brisk canter, breaking through the low-lying ground mist and stirring up the deep scent of the Fall from the leaf-bed beneath Traveller's hooves. It took no time to reach the ford and the gully above it.

"Show me."

Jess slid to the ground and lifted Mike down. Mike didn't resent it because his hands were fully occupied with the concealed box. He shrugged off the blanket cloaking him. There was no point in getting it wet. For the same reason, Jess was pulling his boots off.

"This way."

Mike paddled across the wide pool above the ford and climbed easily up the waterfall feeding it. The hole still showed dark in the little cliff face.

"Where's the stone?"

Mike pointed to the shallow pool above the waterfall. Jess waded in and began to feel about under the water until he located the square stone. Lifting it out, he looked closely at it for a moment, then turned it over in his hands until he was satisfied with its orientation. Mike could see there were marks carved into the stone: symbols and words which he did not understand.

"Now, Mike. Unwrap the box so it rests on the cloth. Don't touch it with your fingers if you can avoid it. Make sure that the lid will open away from you. Slide it back into the hole and pull the wrapping away."

"Ok, Jess." Mike's tongue stuck out in deep concentration as he carefully followed these instructions.

The box sat once more in its hiding place.

Jess equally carefully replaced the stone. He put the palm of his hand over it and recited some words under his breath: "Quid est occultatum, occultum debet manere!"

Then he turned briskly to Mike. "That's it! Come on. Breakfast!"

They jumped down over the waterfall causing a fountain of spray, both of them too wet now to care otherwise. The blanket came in hand for drying themselves. It was a bit damp when Jess tucked it round Mike before lifting him on to Traveller's back again, but it didn't matter compared with the relief of what they had accomplished.

As they jogged back towards the relay station, Mike asked curiously: "What did you say to the stone, Jess?"

"What was written on it," Jess replied in practical tones. "I reckon the words must be important if someone took the trouble to carve them specially on it."

Mike nodded, accepting the logic of this, even though neither of them had understood what the words meant.

They continued in companionable silence for a while. It was some time before Mike wriggled round in Jess's arms and looked up at him appealingly. He needed to ask the question which had been in his heart and mind in the night past, just before he picked up the box.

"The box had a power, Jess, didn't it?" When his guardian nodded in agreement, Mike went to the heart of the matter: "Why would someone make something so powerful and then bury it in the bank of a stream?"

Jess looked at him gravely for a moment. "Maybe they buried it just because it is so powerful, Mike."

"Was the power very bad?"

"No. Not necessarily. I think it was different for each person who opened the box."

"For each of us?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause, then Mike said thoughtfully, "I wonder what the others dreamed?"

"We won't know, Mike. We never really know the deepest hopes and fears of anyone else. All we can do is be ready to lend them strength and love as they face up to them."

Mike brooded on this for another minute or two before he demanded, with his usual tenacity: "But why make the box in the first place, Jess? Why make something which –" he hesitated, before plunging on: "which makes our fears real?"

"And our hopes and dreams, Mike," Jess amended gently. "I guess it gives us the chance to choose to build a new life, a better future, from whatever happened in the past."

Mike thought some more. Finally he sighed and smiled: "Like me finding two new fathers I didn't know I had?"

"Yeah, Mike, like that. Like that for all of us. We all found family," Jess smiled as he urged Traveller towards their home. "Now let's concentrate on the things which really matter, like getting home for breakfast. I'm starving!"

Leaves swirled around Traveller's hooves as he sped onwards through the light of the new day.

Behind them, the box sat quietly waiting in its dark burial place.

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NOTES:

Acknowledgements:

Thanks to Westfalen for help with matters of horse management.

 _For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._

Quotations:

 _To build a new life on a ruined life - The Masque of Pandora_ , Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 _If I had known before I courted –_ from an English Folk song: _Come all you fair and tender ladies,_ Sharpe, Appalachian collection

 _Silent, as in bleak dismay –_ from _Ballad of Broken Flutes_ , Edwin Arlington Robinson

 _He girt the saddle to the steed -_ from an English ballad: _The Lord of_ _Lorn_ _and the False Steward,_ Bodliean Library collection

 _When we were young and wake from sleep –_ from _The Snowflake_ , W. H. Davies

 _And will you never return –_ from _Farwell, Farewell,_ lyrics by Richard Thompson, Fairport Convention

 _Across the gulf of darkness –_ from _The Wind of Sorrow,_ Henry Van Dyke

Quid est occultatum, occultum debet manere – that which is hidden should remain hidden.


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